


a scar so deep

by wormguts



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Suicide, Torture, Touch-Starved, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormguts/pseuds/wormguts
Summary: Wade's scars are ugly.Peter wants to touch them.





	a scar so deep

They're a bit ugly. Grotesque. Like something left too long in the oven. Sometimes, Peter catches glimpses of them under the charred, torn bits of Wade's suit.

Sometimes, Peter has to stop himself from reaching out and touching.

* * *

 

Peter left a bit of himself outside the first home he ever knew.

 

At the time, the city was in the process of renovating most of the sidewalks in the area, a process both necessary and "needlessly annoying," according to Dad. They put those bumpy, red things at the end of the walk, right where it connects with the street. Peter loved to run his hands along the knobby protrusions. It was fun to ride his bike over them and feel the vibrations throughout his whole body.

 

Mom thought it was cute. Dad wasn't so keen on it. "Odd behavior," he'd described it. Peter wasn't supposed to like touching things. It was weird. But at seven, Peter didn't get it. Parents were enigmas; as long as he did as he was told and didn't sprout an attitude, everything would be fine.

 

So Peter only played in the street when Dad wasn't around.

 

Soon after, Mom got fussy about the drive. “It looks beat to hell,” she’d told Dad one night when Peter wasn’t supposed to be listening. Tucked behind the piano, he watched Dad roll his eyes at Mom across the kitchen table. She wanted the driveway redone. It would increase property value. Peter didn’t get it. But at seven, he wasn’t expected to.

 

The next week, the big trucks came, and workers littered the front lawn like orange and yellow penguins in big, clunky boots. Peter watched in fascination as the wet, sloppy concrete was poured. He liked the way it looked as it piled there, a little mound just about his size before the workers smoothed it out with their tools. He wanted to stick his hands into it. He wanted to touch, to feel it slipping between his fingers. It looked like it was cold. Peter wanted to _feel_.

 

The workers kept his straying hands away from their work with the promise of trapping him in the goop. Peter didn't like that very much. He obeyed, staying at a reasonable distance until the men packed up their equipment and drove away in their trucks. That was as long as he could take it. As soon as his parents were distracted — Dad with the TV, Mom with the mountains of paperwork on her desk — he snuck back outside in his pajamas.

 

The concrete was still fresh, still wet when Peter flattened his small hands into the mixture. The funny feeling tickled his nose, his fingertips, his entire body from the splatter of freckles on his cheeks right down to his bare toes. He put those in next. That felt even better.

 

Mom found him out front, squatting like a monkey with his hands and feet stuck along the edge of the driveway. She told Dad. Peter wasn't allowed out to play for a week.

 

That was years ago. His little hand and feet prints are probably still out there, outside the first home he ever knew. One of these days Peter would like to return, just to feel the concrete with his hands and his feet again.

 

Peter doesn’t have a Dad to punish him for it this time.

 

* * *

 

The desire is there, just under his skin. It itches. He can feel it reaching its talons throughout his body, tainting his blood, seeping into his idle thoughts like black goo. The knowledge of its existence concerns him more than the desire itself, which only concerns him more. The only comfort Peter allows himself is the fact that Wade does not, and _never_ _will_ , know of Peter’s... thoughts.

 

As far as Wade is aware, Peter is disturbed and disgusted by his skin. The miles of scars and lacerations that stretch across his body, the open wounds that Peter wants to sink his fingernails in — Wade has every right to believe it’s unsettling. Sickening, especially if you stop to consider just how some of them came to be. Ugly.

 

Peter bets the texture is amazing.

 

It’s probably weird how often he finds himself wondering how Wade’s skin would feel under his fingertips, how many times he’s imagined running his hands over the ridges, the crevices, dipping a finger into the tender healing bits. But he can’t help himself. Doesn’t know how to stop. He’s plagued with a morbid sort of curiosity, the kind that leaves him frustrated and something else he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

 

He just wants to know how it’d feel. Exposed, vulnerable, laid out before him and begging to be touched — would the scars be soft?

**Author's Note:**

> i've decided i'm just gonna use this account to post everything i write regardless of quality or length hehe


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